Ebon Storm
by Alley Cat Sunflower
Summary: What is a chimera without a horn or fangs or a stinger? Wings alone are not enough to keep such a beast alive, as Wingul is beginning to discover the hard way. Follows seven stages of grief in seven days. Not particularly a sequel to "Star-Crossed", despite the similar subject matter. T with some M tendencies for suggestive themes. I do not own Tales of Xillia or the cover art.


_First submission of the year, **finally**. I've worked on three different stories over the last couple weeks, but this is the first one that was finished, so this one gets the honor. That means I'm starting out my year on a rather depressing note; at least it can only get better from here…?_

_I know I've done this format once before, but I wanted to try it again, centered around a situation that makes a bit more sense. With any luck, this one's a bit more coherent than the last one.  
_

_Oh, and the __translations of the Long Dau phrases I use are "Rest in peace", "Leave me alone", and "Storm", respectively. (I used Taleslation's Long Dau guide.)  
_

* * *

**Shock**

_No_.

The world goes suddenly silent around Wingul, and he looks up to stare down the messenger who brings him those thirteen unlucky words; she quakes quietly under his glaring golden gaze. She clearly knows the consequences of bringing him false information, so why has she delivered such an obviously inaccurate note? The news _cannot_ be true, official seal notwithstanding; there must have been a misunderstanding of some sort—

"Sir?" squeaks the messenger, awaiting his acknowledgment of receipt. Wingul forces himself to remember that this is not her fault, and nods once; his affirmative motion is so abrupt it almost hurts. She bows and walks away stiffly, as if barely holding herself back from running: Wingul only turns away and glances once more at the hastily scribbled words, black ink bleeding through thin paper.

_Nadia Travis and Jill Lewin are confirmed to have been killed in action_. That's all. The handwriting is messy and unfamiliar, scrawled by some nameless officer who does not see fit to say how they died, or where their bodies are—and who thinks that he has any right to use her true name.

To use _their _true names, Wingul amends, and sits on the ground next to the throne in an effort to steady himself, shaking involuntarily. The letter is marked by His Highness's sigil in red ink at the end, just like any other official document—but the stamp is smeared as though with emotion, a departure from the King's traditional calm carefulness.

Wingul flips the note over on the ground beside him, unable to bear looking at it any longer, and rests his head briefly in his hands. Rubbing his temples, he reflects on the intricacies of fate; the mighty Chimeriad were once the four most feared warriors in Rieze Maxia. They've stood up against entire armies of enemy troops, just the four of them, and every one of them has always come out unscathed.

But, he supposes, after Jiao's sacrifice, they've—

He shakes his head to dislodge the thought, running his hands briefly through his hair. Wingul knows too little about the circumstances to waste time speculating, although he thinks he knows what happened. It's best to wait until he has been given all the information before he passes judgment, and maintain the vague and secret and unlikely hope that he is not alone.

* * *

**Denial**

Wingul awakens with a strange bitterness corroding what little is left of his heart, and when he remembers what it is, his empty chest feels heavier than ever.

At dinner last evening, he received a second note written by His Highness himself, further explaining the situation, and upon reading it, found that he could eat no more. Wingul simply retired to his room for the night, reading and re-reading the letter, looking for something—anything—to counteract this condemnation to solitude.

_Apparently, the cliff gave way either during or after the battle. _Wingul almost laughed the first time he read it; how can it be that Presa and Agria were able to survive countless perilous battles with all manner of foe, only to be taken down by nature itself? Is their _own_ world their enemy now, in addition to this new one?

_I have buried both bodies where they fell. _Why does it hurt so much to think that he can offer their corpses no last words, whether insults or thanks? Wingul has never liked Agria, and as for Presa, _she_ was a meddling whore to the end. He is not one for goodbyes nor gratitude, or so he tells himself.

_The traitor has returned to the others; the girl from Leronde still lives. _Predictably. Wingul initially assumed that the only reason Presa could falter would be if her treacherous lover turned against her. Well, as it turned out, that was only part of the equation; the cliff had done the work for him in the end—but Wingul feels certain that the bastard had still had his hand in her defeat.

_Expect me to return in three days_. Two days, now, but the timing is still uncertain. Wingul opens his weary eyes with an effort and stares at the ceiling, barely visible in the gray light of dawn; it couldn't have been more than a few hours ago that he finally slipped into fitful slumber. The rest of the time has been unwillingly spent in thought and reflection so deep and unsettling that at times, it seemed like a long and continuous nightmare.

_Until then, look after Rieze Maxia in my stead. _Wingul is the last one standing, the only one left alive. He may know nothing about horns or fangs or stingers, but he—the wings—must now guide the complete chimera regardless. (Nay; the entire world.)

His new responsibility is overwhelming, looming dark and intangible like a shadow on the wall, and Wingul finds himself running from it like he's never run from anything before. He is too sensible a man to believe, even for a moment, that he might be dreaming—but that doesn't make this reality seem any more real to him.

It's always ached a little to think about what he saw in Presa, but now, it _hurts_, and she can't heal him this time. Before, she unfailingly stopped the pain by causing Wingul to forget how to think, redirecting the very flow of his blood with a few simple movements and the right tone of voice, just as if casting an arte.

Their dalliance was a game of dominance, an endless and impudent challenge towards Wingul's tradition and authority. It was both maddening and elating, frustrating and rewarding, to play it… and it was not his decision. Presa had gotten him addicted to her long ago with her silver-tongued seduction, encouraging a thirst he did not at first know he had.

But now his bed feels too big, too empty, and she is no longer capable of filling it. Wingul fidgets briefly in remembrance of nights past, then half-reluctantly hauls himself out of bed, sliding out from under his memories of Presa. By no means is he ready to face the day—but then, he doesn't have a choice.

* * *

**Anger**

Wingul stands at the cliff's edge, glaring down at where his comrades lie sleeping beneath the earth, and pulls his cape more tightly around his shoulders as a light rain gradually soaks him through.

He is fortunate, he thinks, that he has had so little time to think since His Highness gave him the responsibility of ensuring the world's safety. Wingul has not had enough time nor energy to visit their resting place. But last night, he slept more soundly, utterly exhausted from fighting Elympion troops for most of the day before—sating his diminished appetite with bloodshed instead of sustenance.

Once, Wingul desired to rule more than anything. Though he accepted the Dawn King as his superior all those years ago, he swore that as soon as His Highness made a mistake, he would seize the throne for himself. Now that his dream of long ago has been realized, if only temporarily, he has come to see that he does not possess the strength of will to sit upon it.

Not alone.

"It's your fault," growls Wingul suddenly, surprising himself by speaking aloud. (He has no words for the shadowless one, only for the hundred forgotten spells.) "You believed in the same man who tortured you before," he continues vehemently, "and this time, he killed you. You should have known better!"

His mind and mouth are full of clumsy sentiments never spoken. Panted or grunted, gasped or growled… but never fully articulated, because how he felt was only ever clear amid the haze of euphoria.

When the heat of passion seared their sweat-slicked figures; when they instinctively started to shudder through their movements; when Presa writhed beneath him with eyes half-closed in bliss; when ecstasy finally surged through his body like a mighty wave, lapping at the edges of his soul—that was when Wingul understood, because in that moment, no thoughts could get in his way.

But as he lay still and caught his breath, he inevitably remembered how to think again. As the satisfaction that flooded his body gradually receded like the tides, his first rational impression was invariably one of _dis_satisfaction. Almost disgust—the same thing he feels now, as he turns his head to fix his gaze on the weeping sky.

"You deserved it," he mutters, voice hoarse and vindictive and _almost _sincere, and the wind picks up at his words, nearly drowning them out. "To trust a traitor is… madness." Just as Wingul eventually put his faith in Presa, despite the fact that she had once turned on the Rats. And where did that reliance lead? To disappointment and betrayal. Wingul ordered her to return alive, and trusted that she would obey—but instead, she let herself die.

He lets out a long and silent breath, closing his eyes, focusing with difficulty on the relentless droplets sprinkling his face. His skin tingles with the cold, and Wingul bows his head and smiles bitterly as he remembers similar, more pleasurable sensations long since faded.

Every time that wordless elation washed over him, Presa reached deep inside him, taking something forbidden in her willowy fingers. She tugged it from its rightful place, so gradually that Wingul did not notice, until finally—some time ago, now—she spirited it away, holding it so tightly in cruelly gentle claws that he could still feel it aching, even when it was far away.

Where is it now, he wonders? Did His Highness bury it with her—or is he now its bearer? Could he have rethought his decision to throw it back all those years ago, when Wingul grudgingly offered his life to him upon his surrender?

It is foolish, he thinks agitatedly, looking up once more, to yield to such meaningless emotion. Dwelling on the past is unlike him; he ought to focus on issuing and following orders. Since Jiao, Presa, and Agria are no longer here to carry them out, Wingul must work four times as hard to make His Highness's dream a reality: he cannot afford to be sidetracked like this.

Jiao's sacrifice troubled Wingul deeply, but did not make him lose focus; there is no reason why the deaths of the other two should bother him so. After all, Agria was simply a delinquent, a psychopath, a barely restrainable arsonist. Presa was merely a dangerous distraction, a temptress, a whore who demanded power instead of money.

They were Wingul's allies in title, working for the same cause; and their connections were valuable to the King's aims; and they were undeniably exceptional warriors… but they were never his equals.

"_Din'suti umu pun'ewan',_" says Wingul, both regretful and scathing—and he turns on his heel and strides away.

* * *

**Bargaining**

…What's _she_ doing here?

The Great Spirit giggles and waves at Wingul, hovering next to the throne where His Highness sits. He only narrows her eyes at her in response; the King inclines his head by way of greeting, and Wingul sinks briefly to one knee before straightening again, his eyes remaining fixed on the being beside him.

"I must ask you to continue defending Rieze Maxia while I am away," says His Highness, getting straight to the point; there is no time for anything else, given that the fate of the world is as yet uncertain. "My business will hopefully not detain me much longer, but there have been a few… complications."

Wingul simply nods in understanding; this is a complex enough situation that a few twists here and there are to be expected.

His Highness gestures to the Great Spirit—Muzét?—and she curtsies in midair, lifting a hand delicately to her face as she speaks. "My sister is still alive," she informs Wingul, and he blinks in surprise, shifting his eyes back to his ruler; according to the King's expression, she's telling the truth. "And working against Lord Gaius."

_Lord Gaius_? When did she change her allegiance?

"Maxwell is no longer fit to rule this world," explains His Highness matter-of-factly, evidently noticing the wary curiosity Wingul cannot entirely suppress. "He is weak in his conviction, and cruel to those who are weaker still. Thus, Muzét has chosen to follow me—and together we have sealed him."

She gives a small and somewhat sinister smile at his words, and Wingul inclines his head with unspoken skepticism. The Lord of Spirits, _sealed_? "I will accompany Lord Gaius on his mission," says Muzét serenely, her eyes unnervingly unfocused. "My powers have grown since our tethering; I will lend all my strength to his cause."

Wingul does not need to ask what tethering is: her partiality is clear, though the King seems to be ignoring it, and her tone is a shade too close to Presa's for his liking. "I will continue watching over Rieze Maxia, Your Highness," is all he says, observing with veiled dislike Muzét sitting next to the King in midair.

"Very good," responds His Highness with the barest hint of a smile—but there's an unusual hesitation in his voice. "I'm sorry that you don't have more support," he says finally. "Even I ordinarily have you to help me."

Wingul shakes his head, closing his eyes briefly. "I'll be fine," he responds, and means it. It helps a great deal to have things with which to busy himself; there's far less time to brood about days gone by if he's forced to focus on the days ahead. If he simply puts everything he has into fulfilling the King's wishes, then perhaps the invisible hole in his chest will close; perhaps the bitter taste in his mouth will fade.

His Highness nods in approval. "Good," he says, getting to his feet. Muzét balances on his shoulder with one hand; he glances towards her briefly, but makes no effort to push her away. "Jude and his allies will undoubtedly oppose me to the very end," he continues, crossing his arms. "And when the inevitable comes to pass, I will need you."

Wingul meets his King's eyes, searching them carefully, before finally dropping his gaze and dipping his head in agreement. It's a potentially fatal mission; he alone will stand between Jude (and Ilbert) and His Highness. But Wingul has no intention of stepping aside and letting them pass, even if it costs him his life: he no longer has anything that it would trouble him to lose, nor anyone for whom he need be concerned save the King.

"Then I will send Muzét for you when that time comes," says His Highness, and Wingul glances at the spirit with some mistrust; her eyes are wide and dreamy and barely meet his. "Until then," he finishes, withdrawing a letter from his coat and offering it to him, "look after our people. Do as I would do."

"I will, Your Highness," murmurs Wingul, accepting the note and bowing.

The King exchanges a glance with Muzét, who nods, and then he plunges his hand _through _her chest, into a portal of some sort. As Wingul stares incredulously, he withdraws a new nodachi, its blade bright blue and shimmering with ethereal energy—and, shifting the hilt in his hand, he vertically slashes apart the empty air with a swift and sudden motion.

Reality parts under the blow to reveal swirling nothingness; His Highness steps through as though quite used to it, while Muzét pauses before it and glances back at Wingul, looking him up and down appraisingly. He merely looks stonily back at her, not troubling to hide his suspicion; if she turned against Maxwell, she could just as easily turn on the King.

Eventually, as if suddenly noticing something about him, Muzét laughs lightly; her vivid green eyes fairly sparkle with mirth. "I'm sorry for your loss," she giggles, raising a hand to her mouth: Wingul scowls at her irreverence, but has no time to demand that she tell him what she knows and how. Muzét swiftly vanishes into the portal, and it closes behind her as though it was never there.

* * *

**Guilt**

Just like the first night, sleep does not come easily.

Wingul lies flat on his bare back with the covers thrown off, by now used to the cold Kanbalar night, and wonders dully what time it is. How long will it be before he lets go of his confused frustration enough to sleep? How long has he lain here, trying with increasing desperation not to think of—?

He gives a sibilant sigh that lingers in the darkness, forcing his mind away from her for what feels like the thousandth time.

Wingul has had a day or two to think over the King's letter; it contained information he could not impart to him in Muzét's presence. Primarily, it explained the root of her involvement in the situation, her desperate need for a purpose, and an unprovable assurance of her loyalty.

The letter offers little solace. It leaves only a vague uneasiness that Wingul does not like, and it reminds him far too much of his existing disquiet with regard to the deaths of his comrades. (Damn it; here he goes again.)

He should have recalled Presa, and Agria too for that matter; he should have sent some guards in their place. If the battle was fated to end in defeat, better several dead soldiers than a severed stinger and a broken fang. Or perhaps Wingul could have left the battle against Exodus to his inferiors; he could have gone with his equals instead…

He reminds himself that the unstable cliff was what killed them: if he could not change the outcome, if Agria and Presa were to die regardless of anything he could have tried to do—at the _very_ least, Wingul never should have allowed himself to get so close to her. If all those instants of pleasure only led to this agony when all was said and done, he would rather never have had them… or so he tells himself.

Wingul is the strategist among them; he ought to have foreseen this. Jiao's death had been an unpredictable but understandable sacrifice, and his plans had needed readjustment after that; but this time, it was all his fault. He never should have made the assumption that Agria and Presa would return alive from a battle in such a precarious environment. _Especially_ not when it was so well-known at that point how strong Jude (and Ilbert) and his friends had become.

…And the traitor.

Wingul did not execute him, if only because Presa had already appealed to His Highness for his safety by the time he knew of the agreement—but he should _never_ have suggested throwing the liar back into the path of his former friends. He arranged it thus in the vague hope that the turncoat would draw the majority of their fire, as they would likely have a desire to exact revenge for that betrayal.

It was a dangerous risk—and it did not pay off. There's no use running from the idea any longer; Wingul was irrefutably the one to send his two remaining comrades to their deaths, and is thus the cause of his own turmoil. He deserves every sleepless second this night has to offer, thinking restlessly about what could have happened and what will never happen again.

And those infuriating moments, the times when the world fades in his ears and his mind goes blank and he remembers the wordless truth—Wingul growls indistinctly at the memories, still unable to fully recall that tacit epiphany. Would it help, he wonders suddenly, to bring _himself _to that point? (It may be a sin, but certainly no more of one than he had ever committed with Presa…)

Wingul laughs humorlessly at the unbidden thought, and shakes his head to draw his thoughts back upward, closing his eyes and rolling over in bed. He's sure it would only make him feel worse in the end.

* * *

**Depression**

He dreams of helplessness, watching from a distance as a cliff crumbles and falls, and knows without seeing that a precious life has been lost. But Wingul does not remember whose it is until he jolts awake, roused by the deafening sound of silence, and finds with some confusion that his cheeks are sticky with tears.

And, as his eyes open blearily, he discovers that Muzét hovers placidly above him, lying on her stomach in midair. At Wingul's ragged inhalation and sudden motion to pull his blankets at least over his groin, she glances down at him and tilts her head slightly, saying nothing.

He knows what _that _means. "So soon?" he asks huskily, and clears his throat.

"Lord Gaius is not certain when Jude and my sister will come for him," explains Muzét smilingly, altogether too unconcerned for Wingul's liking. "It's best if you go with me sooner rather than later."

He nods shortly, glowering up at her. "How long have you waited?"

Muzét kicks her legs slowly, lazily, and giggles. "Time means little to a spirit such as myself," she responds, though she does not seem to be purposely avoiding the answer he seeks—rather, misinterpreting the reason for his asking.

Wingul heaves a sigh, seeing all too clearly that Muzét will not understand if he asks her to leave while he dresses himself. Shelving his well-earned pride, he reluctantly throws off his covers and gets to his feet. "Why didn't you wake me as soon as you arrived?" he asks somewhat irritably, tugging on some pants in a hurry.

"You were talking in your sleep," replies Muzét, and he pulls a shirt over his head, uncomfortably aware of the fact that she is watching his every move. Not even Presa ever stayed long enough to see him get dressed. "In another language. I've never heard anything like it before, so I wanted to listen."

And, apparently, to watch him sleep, and to see his bare body as he cried in unconscious misery. She may be his ally now, but so were the Chimeriad, and they had never seen Wingul in such a vulnerable position—and he liked it that way.

"_Lun'enun' tun' elimun'_," he mutters spitefully, yanking on his boots. He quickly fastens his sword belt around his waist, resting his hand automatically on the hilt of Suti'ditu—the weapon of his ancestors. (Its stormy blade, when unsheathed, flashes like lightning and sings like thunder.)

"Yes; something like that," says Muzét conversationally, delicately plucking his jacket up from the other side of the bed before floating over and holding it out as if to help him into it. "I've never heard anything like it before."

Wingul snatches his coat away from her and dons it himself as Muzét pauses thoughtfully, raising a hand daintily to her cheek, her eyes gleaming. "You used to be a member of the Chimeriad, yes?" she asks eventually, and the past tense shoots through him like a sudden headache.

_I'm sorry for your loss_, he remembers her say, so insolently, and frowns. "I still am," responds Wingul, stung, and clasps his cape around his shoulders. In an effort to escape her, he stalks into his adjoining bathroom to complete his morning ritual, almost slamming the door behind him.

But he can still hear Muzét's persistent voice, hovering just outside. "Even without the others?" Her tone is casual and curious, as if merely inquiring about the weather, and Wingul grits his teeth. Perhaps, if he ignores her, she will leave him to his tormented isolation…

…No. "You don't say much," observes Muzét lightly, her disquietingly smooth voice seeping like smoke through the cracks in the door. "I can see why Lord Gaius keeps you." _Keeps _him? Wingul scowls, rinsing his hands and splashing water on his face—gasping quietly at the cold.

"But there's no need to give _me_ the silent treatment," pouts Muzét as Wingul wordlessly drags a bone comb through his hair (the yellow strands ignore all attempts to tame them, as always). "I'm just as much a subordinate of Lord Gaius as you are, you know."

Wingul stares darkly at his sleep-deprived reflection. She does not have to tell him so; he's noticed how similar they are already, and he _hates_ it. Both of them fought against His Highness before he recruited them. Both of them seem satisfied with solitude—at least, to a certain degree—so long as they're able to serve the King. Both of them require a purpose in life more than anything, and they must feel that their power is needed.

"…I am nothing like you," retorts Wingul, setting the comb down on the granite counter with a sharp sound. (He notices that his hands are shaking, but he can't imagine why.)

"If you insist," is Muzét's only, calm response, a smile edging her voice—and Wingul knows that she hears the irrepressible weariness in his voice. He's so _tired_. Not just because of lack of sleep; he's exhausted from the struggle to fill his three fallen comrades' shoes. No matter how hard he fights, it's never enough: his booster gives him a constant headache these days, warning him in futile earnestness that he must slow down.

But Wingul is not about to abandon what little he cares for; he is already aware that he will work himself to death if he must. His Highness has always labored so tirelessly to bring peace to this world that he cannot in good conscience do anything less than his best—even if it kills him. And now that the rest of the Chimeriad is gone, Wingul must fight three times harder to achieve the King's vision.

He's just beginning to fear, in the back of his mind, that all his service will change nothing in the end.

* * *

**Acceptance**

Wingul finds an uneasy sort of peace in meditation.

Time has as little meaning to him in this place as if he were a spirit himself; he loses count of the hours. The fragmented terrain glows with an iridescent sheen, lighting his surroundings like many dim and angular suns, but the sky above swirls with galaxies as in night. Regardless, Wingul is fairly certain that dusk and dawn have both passed since his arrival.

He's already scouted out the battlefield, of course. Wingul has tested the physical capabilities of all these glasslike cubes; spat off the edge of the earth to determine if there are any invisible surfaces down below; and whetted his bloodthirsty blade on the few spirits which have crossed his path. Now, there is nothing to do but sit, and wait, and think.

Wingul slips into fitful dreams now and then—of the avalanche which changed his destiny; of the persistently aching booster implanted in his brain; of the taste of Presa's silver tongue. More often, he drifts between waking and sleeping, opening one eye now and again to find the world as deserted as ever.

Now, both are wide and unseeing as Wingul gazes unblinkingly into the vast expanse of space. Nebulae hang in the ambiguous heavens like colorful clouds, but no wind stirs them from their fixed positions. Each individual human and spirit is so _infinitesimal_, he realizes, compared to the sprawling majesty of the universe.

What is one life, in the greater scheme of things? What is the significance of a single death? Neither ordinarily affects the nature of existence; infinity is indifferent to the struggles and triumphs of humanity and spiritkind alike. But His Highness is different from the rest; he can and _will_ alter the very essence of reality, and the cosmos must acknowledge his intent…

_Long Dau_, muses Wingul, leaning his head against the cube behind him to observe the sky. The path of light. But he does not create that path, as his ancestors intended; he merely follows it—led by he who pulls the world behind him. And where does it end?

_Li Ying_, he answers himself with a humorless chuckle. Reincarnation. Wingul's destiny is written in his true name; someday, his soul will be purified, and all that he is will cease to be. And as he recognizes the inevitability of his death, something unnameable whispers silently in his ear, sending a shiver down his spine: _his fate approaches_.

Wingul cuts the thought down where it stands. Even if it speaks truth, it can have no bearing on his course of action. He has known, ever since the earliest years of adolescence—he has _known_, ever since his recruitment, that he will do everything in his power to assist His Highness… up to and including dying for the sake of his ideals.

Jiao sacrificed himself to reduce the strain on the Rieze Maxian forces; Presa and Agria died trying to hold back their strongest opposition. If Wingul must die today, never again setting foot on his own land, so be it. He will defend his King to the end, and do it proudly; to save himself and live on when a sacrifice might better help His Highness would be truly shameful.

Every one of his comrades thought the same. Even had the cliff not given way, even had Presa and Agria survived to fight another battle, they would still have lain down their lives for His Highness if necessary. The strength of their conviction flows into Wingul's heart, warming him as the stars glimmer coldly down. He takes a deep and somewhat shaky breath, understanding at last that each one of them would have died just as easily for him—and that he would have done the same for each of them, if he knew it would change anything.

They were not mere allies, but _friends_, in their own way.

And, staring into the heart of a fiery sphere some distance away with kinship weighing heavily on his mind, Wingul realizes something he should have discovered years ago, and his breath catches at the force of the revelation. The sentiment he could never identify or express or even remember, that which only Presa could invoke, is no longer nameless; the thing which she stole from him still beats in his chest.

As he acknowledges for the first time the bond the Chimeriad truly shared—and, perhaps more importantly still, the bond he shared with Presa—Wingul finds that he is ready to face whatever today will bring.

Smiling faintly, he closes his eyes once more, and awaits his destiny with newfound peace. He has no desire to see the eternal emptiness spread out before him any longer: it has told him all he needs to know. Simply understanding that it will always be there, watching him dispassionately, is enough for him.


End file.
